its art by jonathan

she'd spent long nights with haurchefant, before and after the bloody banquet, discussing any topics they could think of. he would pull stories out of her of her adventures and, rarely, her childhood, and he would divulge of his own, including his enjoyment of the arts. one particular story recounted stuck with her; odette, the swan princess, and her tragic demise hand-in-hand with her prince, choosing to die human together rather than being forced to live on as something else.

the eventual irony was not lost on her. it was one of the things she thought of when he cradled her face for the last time after asking her to smile, his thumb leaving a smear of his blood behind on her cheek that she painted back on every morning.

he remembers azem showing him the feathered thing; a surprisingly graceful creature to come from her hands. offset by her decision to instill all of them with an innate desire to bite his, of course.

Odette's eyes glance down his chest, pale as the rest of him, slightly furred and age-softened. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, resisting the urge to sink her fangs into him instead. 

Abruptly, her line of sight is covered, Emet-selch's palm resting over her eyes.

"I thought the purpose of forcing me half-nude was to leave you less distracted," he says, annoyed. She lets out a diffused laugh, making up for her lost sense by feeling up his sides instead, squeezing where he slightly overflows his trousers.

"Have I infringed on your modesty?" she asks, a touch mocking. "Is the big bad Ascian embarrassed?"

"The only," he starts, and she can tell she's flustered him by how his voice trembles slightly, "person painting us as 'bad'—a very childish view of morality, it must be said—is you."

Her eyes roll behind his cover.

"I felt that," he says.

"You would've seen it, too. And to think, you could be getting kissed instead."

She hears the opening and shutting of his jaw a few times, caught between instincts. Finally he relinquishes her vision, his hand instead slipping behind her head to thread his fingers through her hair and pull her closer. Odette obliges, her lips meeting his again, palms roaming up his torso until she's at his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his neck and shortening the distance between their bodies even further.

He has a tremendous amount of self control, she thinks, to be turning down her advances even as he strokes down the open back of her shirt and gropes her arse through her pajama bottoms. Very admirable. Extremely frustrating.

Odette pulls back, a soft huff of annoyance on her breath as she twists round in his arms to look at the table, stretching to reach their discarded wine and take a swig. Meanwhile, she feels Emet undoing her hair ties, gently parting her braids and brushing out her bouncy curls with his fingers.

"Rude," she murmurs, turning back to him with the bottle in hand.

"Drinking from the bottle? Yes, I agree. Quite uncivilized," he says. The fresh bloom of warmth in her chest from the wine makes her smile at his remark rather than wish to deck him as much as usual.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," she counters, reaching behind him to grab his hair and gently pull his head back. He obeys, the flush in his cheeks burning hotter still.

"You want me to stoop—" he cuts off as she cradles the bottle to his face at an angle, tilting her head in question, and he decides to shut up and open his mouth. She tips a slow stream of wine down his tongue, watching resigned acceptance settle in the furrow of his brow.

"Whoops," Odette hums as she spills some, rivulets of sheer red running down his jaw, but before he can complain she ever-so-helpfully leans down to lick up the mess. Suddenly Emet-selch seems to forget about the wine entirely, turning his head to catch her tongue, fingers digging into her body. She throws her arms around him again, and the bottle hits the floor, and moments later as does their chair, brought off course by how ferociously they come at each other. Neither of them notice or comment. He rolls her onto her back, arms braced on either side of her head; she rakes her fingers down his shoulderblades, intending to leave marks that only she will know are there. She relinquishes control for but a moment before she hooks her legs around his thighs and yanks at him, flipping their positions again. He grumbles as she settles on his lap, and she bites his lip in response, grinning coyly into it.

They wrestle for dominance while locking lips until they wind up in her bed, and his roaming hands still make no effort to undress her. Much as she wants to lose herself, she doesn't press him on the boundary. She would regret it when she's not drunk, even more than she is going to regret this, so it might be for the best. 

The long day, the comfort of the sheets and the weight of his embrace is starting to press down on her, making her eyelids heavy, the pace of her lips growing languid.

"Am I boring you?" Emet-selch asks between kisses, with no real venom or offense. He almost sounds endeared.

"Always," Odette says, fighting back a yawn. She manages a few more chaste pecks before her head droops, pressing her face half into the pillows with a sigh. "I don't want the night to end," she admits in a mumble.

He strokes his fingers through her hair. "You still have nights left to bring."

They share a moment of heavy silence. Both of them are aware of the mutually destructive nature of their tryst, she thinks. Nothing here is getting out. That, the wine, and the warmth dulls her inhibitions, and she shuffles forward to nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, letting herself enjoy the comfort of holding a body close. He makes a mild noise of surprise, the same as when she’d first kissed him, but soon enough hugs her back. Shutting her eyes, she listens to his heartbeat; a beat she knows didn’t belong to him until he entered this reflection, yet it nevertheless lulls her to sleep.

They take turns guarding their meagre belongings while they go off to scrounge for food and gil, taking from equally catastrophe-stricken souls to keep themselves afloat in inn rooms and outskirts of towns.

W'rhinn, stubbornly, stupidly, desperately, still refuses to give up the hunter's mantle. W'rhill watches his back shift while he readies his equipment, crossing his arms and gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

"W'rhinn, let me go instead," he finally says.

"I can do it," W'rhinn bites back immediately, annoyed.

W'rhill scrubs a hand through his hair, trying to stave off the frustration. It was one thing for him to be so stubborn when they weren't pressed for supplies; now every arrow needs to count, and for him they seldom do. "We both know I'm faster, you should just stay back and—"

"Like it takes a prodigy to hunt antelopes?" W'rhinn spits out through gritted teeth. "I can do it."

"There's no one left to impress!" W'rhill says, exasperated.

W'rhinn snaps. He whirls around, eyes burning hatefully. "And who's fault is that?!" 

W'rhill opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat, jaw working soundlessly for a moment before he gives up with a muted sigh through his nose, eyes darting away.

"With how often you were trying to run away, I'm surprised you're not jumping for joy. You finally got what you wanted, right?"

"I didn't want them dead," W'rhill murmurs, voice cracking slightly. W'rhinn continues, either not hearing or not caring.

"Always making me come after you, making me choose between you and the tribe—you're the only one who actually wanted to die! Why couldn't it just have taken you?!"

W'rhill stares at him, a mist gathering in his eyes, the tightened edges of his lips barely quivering, and W'rhinn knows he's gone too far—but he's too proud to try and lessen the damage. Instead he says nothing, grabs his bow, and storms out.

W'rhill stares at the slammed-shut door for some time, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, drawing shallow breaths. He's trying to talk himself out of his own sorrow and anger. He knows, of course, that W'rhinn is right; it is unfair. It should have been just him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills away the ache, welcoming back in the familiar numbness he's trying to live in these days. Looking in mirrors makes it easier, but he doesn't want to see evidence of the tears staining his cheeks, so he settles into it the hard way.

When he breathes out calmly and opens his eyes again, still lingering on the door, he knows what to do. He's known for a little while now, but he was too anxious of W'rhinn getting hurt during his hunts to follow through on it. Or maybe that's what he was telling himself. Maybe, selfishly, he just didn't want to be completely alone, but he can't outrun it any longer. His presence only hurts W'rhinn more.

He leaves as much behind as he thinks he can get away with, taking the smallest of their bags. Traveling light will make him faster anyways. Not that he's worried about W'rhinn finding him, if he tried to go looking. W'rhill has always been the better hunter, and good hunters know how to disappear.

As he's packing, his eye catches on something that makes him pause. He brushes his thumb over his name, sewn into the lining of the backpack. The W stares at him accusatorily, with the same ire W'rhinn carried. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. Drawing his knife from his belt, he hooks it under the embroidered letters, methodically plucking them from the leather until all that remains are the holes left by his mother's sewing needle.

He sheathes his knife once more and stands, drawing his cloak around himself before slinging the bag over his shoulder and quietly exiting the room. There are no last glances back nor hesitation in his gait as he slips from the outpost.